


to run out of breath

by theskylarshippers (coyotestoryteller)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Hospitals, M/M, Multi, henry laurens is an okay parent, it's. interesting, like. he doesn't deserve a sarcastic a+ or a serious a+. maybe give him a b-.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25230472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotestoryteller/pseuds/theskylarshippers
Summary: "It’s the first of May, that first day he can no pretend he hasn’t fallen for his friend.April showers bring May flowers,John thinks to himself. He is used to irony. His life has never been free of it."
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, John Laurens & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 27
Kudos: 84





	1. gasping, part i: to pretend to be fine

It’s been days. John can’t stop coughing. He could probably fill a hundred vases with all these tulip petals. Sure, they’re pretty-- a calming purple-blue, which is not what he’d expect from the results of a horrid disease-- but it’s not as if he can do anything with them, since they always come up wet and covered in blood. There is always far too much blood, and, if he’s being quite honest with himself, he doesn’t even want to think about where it’s coming from. His chest aches and the inside of his throat is being rubbed raw. 

_ Damn it, Hamilton. Why did you move here, anyway? _

Alexander’s entire existence is horribly unfair. He’s too smart, too funny, too charismatic. John never stood a chance against him. They’d been friends for less than a month.

The day it happened, the four of them-- John, Alex, Laf, and Herc, a unit by this point (one might even say a squad)-- were out in Lafayette’s car. When the four of them pulled up to the Dairy Queen drive-through, they’d already been out for half an hour, joking and laughing and debating. It was April thirtieth and raining lightly, but weather was never a factor in their excursions. Rain or shine, they went out every Friday. Laf and Herc were arguing about something and surprisingly, Alexander didn’t join in.

John watched Alex order them all ice cream, speaking way too fast, hopelessly confusing the worker, then smile when they got it quickly (honestly, John thought the workers just wanted them out of there). Alex’s arm brushed his when he handed him a sundae, and that was the moment when John realized it.  _ Well, damn. I’ve got a crush. _

John started coughing the next day. He told himself it was just a cold. He didn’t like Hamilton all that much. He’d gotten wet yesterday, when they’d gone to the city park and chased each other around in the rain. A cold would make sense.

Of course, when he’s leaning over the sink spitting tulip petals into it, spattering the pristine white porcelain with shock-red blood, he’s hard-pressed to deny it.

It’s the first of May, that first day he can no pretend he hasn’t fallen for his friend.  _ April showers bring May flowers,  _ John thinks to himself. He is used to irony. His life has never been free of it.

Henry Laurens most definitely notices in less than twenty-four hours. He pays more attention than anyone gives him credit for. John counts himself lucky that Henry doesn’t press him for information about his crush.

He’s not quite out, exactly; it’s more that the two of them have come to a mutual understanding not to talk about it. His father diverts questions from relatives about his future girlfriends. John doesn’t wear his pride stuff in the house. Henry stands up for LGBT rights at Thanksgiving. John doesn’t mention the gender of his crushes (or one time, his significant other, although he never came up at all), especially not around his siblings. The house is stifling sometimes, but it’s better than a home warmed by constant fighting. Lafayette says that his father will learn to be more okay with it in time. John’s not entirely confident in this.

John just wishes he’d realized earlier. Maybe when he still had a chance, before Alexander started dating Eliza. At this point, there’s nothing he can do. Eliza’s one of his close friends, he couldn’t do that to her (he wouldn’t do that to her), and anyway, the two of them are the cutest, most ridiculously mushy couple.

He knows Alex isn’t going to love him. John’s just going to be stuck with flowers in his lungs for however long it takes to get over him. This has happened to John before. He drinks a lot of hot tea with honey and tries to avoid his friends. No one at school knows he’s got Hanahaki, not even Laf or Herc or the Schuylers. Honestly, he’d like to keep it that way. John gets flower petals all over the bathroom sinks; normally he might swallow them, but the tulip petals are too big. He learned that the hard way.

The problem is that it just won’t stop. It’s been almost a week and his lungs haven’t calmed down at all. He’s barely talked to Alexander the whole week. Usually avoiding his crushes makes it better, but it seems to have done the opposite this time.

It was better with Francis. Francis was single at the time and actually interested in him, and even for the long period of time he was coughing up petals, at least it was marigolds; a lot smaller, a lot easier to deal with.

Absolutely nothing about Alexander is easy to deal with.

John gives another hacking cough, which sets off twinges of pain deep in his chest, and spits more blood into the sink. There are petals stuck to his tongue, and as soon as he manages to get them off, he just coughs up more. There’s no end to it. He stands there for five minutes, gripping the edges sink so hard in the interest of staving off the pain that his fingers go white. Nonetheless, there are always more petals and somehow even more blood, and he’s not feeling any better.

John decides to give up on worrying about it for the night. He cleans out the sink, meticulously scrubbing out any trace of blood, and goes back to his bedroom. Flopping into his armchair, he pulls out his phone. Apparently, Laf, Herc, and Alex have recently had an argument in their group chat-- something about Frank Stanley doing something. Or, potentially, not doing something. Or maybe lying about doing something. It takes him about five minutes to scroll all the way to the top. Alexander is very wordy, typing out enormous paragraphs. It’s one of the things John both loves and hates about him. He talks so much, about all kinds of things, but he never says the things  _ John _ wants to hear. He sees the top messages and sucks in a deep breath.

_ The Squad  _

_ Hamilham: but seriously, you guys, what’s going on with John? _

_ Hamilham: Is he avoiding you guys too or is it just me?  _

_ Hamilham: I don’t know what I did, y’all _

_ Hamilham: Did I offend him or something? Do you know what I might have done to hurt him? I want to make it up to him if I did. _

_ M-JPYRGdMdL: Alexander, mon ami, did you mean to send this here? John is in this chat. _

_ Odysseus: yea _

_ Hamilham: DAMN IT _

_ Hamilham: John, you saw nothing. Nothing. _

_ Odysseus: Ham, should we spam? So he gets bored? How important is this to cover up? _

_ Hamilham: …  _

_ Odysseus: So anyway did you hear about Frank Stanley? _

John nearly has a heart attack right there. Alexander noticed John was avoiding him. There’ll be a confrontation. John isn’t a particularly good liar; whenever he tries to keep things hidden, all his secrets spill out eventually.

He tries to keep calm. If he starts freaking out, it’ll make the Hanahaki worse. He tries to breathe, closes his eyes, and sinks deeper into the armchair.

John doesn’t remember much after that. He has no memories and no thoughts in his head up until the moment his father finds him, slumped to the side and barely breathing, blood and petals dripping from his mouth.

  
  


“John,” Henry says quietly. At first he thinks John’s just fallen asleep in the chair; he’s ready to pick him up and move him to his bed, despite the fact that John is almost as tall as his father now, but something doesn’t feel right to him. He crosses the room to John’s side and sees blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. “John!”

John opens his eyes and realizes his mouth is full and tastes of blood. He leans down and spits out petals, all over the carpet. He can’t muster the energy to care about ruining the rug. Henry sits down next to him. “Shh, shh. It will be okay. Don’t talk, it’ll hurt more. Just breathe.”

John closes his eyes again. He’s heard somewhere that vision uses up a lot of oxygen (he’s not sure, but his guess is that Alex probably mentioned it in the midst of one of his tirades). He needs all the breath he can get right now. He takes in air in shallow bursts and tries not to cough.

“We need to get you to the hospital. I’m calling an ambulance.” Henry tries not to let his fear bleed into his voice. “Just breathe. Oh, John. Just, please… Stay alive. I’ll get you some water.”

Henry calls the hospital. “This is Henry Laurens, I need an ambulance for my son. We’re on Hanahaki Quick Response, our file there should tell you everything. Please come quickly, thank you.” There’s an unnatural calm in his voice. He texts Courtney Willstreet.  _ Hello, sorry for the short notice, I need an overnight babysitter, it’s a family emergency.  _ He brings John water, rubs his back and counts to sixteen as his son spits blood. He’s numb to everything, fear settling in his bones but leaving his mind clear and focused and hard. 

Martha comes into John’s room, in her pajamas, her hair in messy braids. Somehow she heard them, or maybe she just has a sixth sense for when her siblings are in danger. Either way, she comes running.

“John? What’s going on?”

John opens his mouth, but Henry shushes him before he can speak. 

“John is going to the hospital. We are waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Courtney will be here soon to stay with you--”

Martha interrupts him. “I’m coming too.”

“Martha, I really don’t think…”

“I’m coming, Dad.”

Martha crosses the room to squeeze into John’s armchair. Putting an arm around him, she can feel his bones shake when he tries to breathe. He coughs, covers his mouth, spitting blood and petals into his sleeve. “I’m coming, John. Is that okay?” She’s not honestly asking; if he said no, she would have come anyway. Touching him, she can feel how close he is to dying. She’s not going to be at home when her brother could be gone forever at any moment.

John nods. Henry decides not to press the issue. 

“Go get dressed, then.”

Martha’s back in less than two minutes, an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Henry doesn’t know how she packed one so fast, but it’s a good thing, since the ambulance arrives about thirty seconds later. John stumbles out to meet it, leaning on both Henry and Martha.

Courtney Willstreet arrives to babysit five minutes later. The house is still quiet; somehow the sirens of the ambulance hadn’t woken the other children. She finds John’s room a disaster, petals all over, blood in the carpet and seeping into the armchair. Courtney isn’t easily fazed; she finds the cleaning supplies in the hall closet and the bloodstains are out within an hour. Her sister has Hanahaki, and for several years she’s helped her clean up. 

Martha hates hospitals. She hasn’t spent much time in them except when her mother died. John looks so fragile, lying in the sterile white bed with an IV line hooked up to his arm, eyes closed, tulip petals and blood dripping down the side of his face. She squeezes his hand and waits for him to squeeze back. In the ever-so-long moment it takes him to react, she holds her breath and her heart stops beating. John squeezes her hand, eyelids flickering open as he cracks a weak, bloody smile. 

“Just stay alive,” she whispers.


	2. gasping, part ii: to find the words

Henry watches his children and makes plans, because that’s all he knows how to do. He calls work and tells them he won’t be there tomorrow-- it raises a stir, which is idiotic; he should be allowed to take days off when his son is ill. He finds it a bit strange that he can muster the energy to be angry at his ridiculously bureaucratic colleagues and supervisors, at a time like this. He orders a grocery delivery. He texts Courtney.

_ H-Laurens: Courtney, I apologize for texting you this late and for using you as a go-between, but could you please ask your mother if she is available to take the kids to school and pick them up? I will return home briefly to explain the situation to Mary and Henry, but I will most likely not be home for most of the day. Thank you. _

_ C-Willstreet: Oh, it’s fine! I actually don’t have school tomorrow, so I could do that for you. I’ll make the kids breakfast in the morning, take them to school, then do something else until they need to be picked up.  _

_ H-Laurens: That would be very helpful. Thank you so much. I’ll Venmo you. _

John can’t sleep, which means Henry and Martha can’t sleep either. The medication in the IV does seem to help decrease the volume of petals, and he’s not coughing as much now, but his throat still aches, and the medicine seems to also be keeping him awake, as if he’s drunk one of Alex’s ridiculously over-caffeinated espressos. His body burns with the need for something to do. After about a half hour, he asks Martha to find him some paper, and some pencils, and maybe some envelopes. She produces them from her overnight bag in a ridiculously short time.

He sits up (it sends stabbing pains through his chest when he moves, but he finds he actually feels better upright) and writes a letter to all his closest friends. Laf, Herc, Angelica, Eliza, Peggy. Those explain what’s happened to him recently and why he’s kept it hidden. He’s dreading it, but he does write a letter to Alexander. It’s longer than everyone else’s, and he crosses several lines out, though not so thickly that they aren’t readable. He gets tears and blood on the paper, but he’s not willing to rewrite it at this point. 

  
  


He writes another set of letters, which contain final words, instructions, and good wishes, just in case he does die; a letter to his father, a letter to Martha, one to Henry Jr., and one to Mary. He writes letters for his friends, hoping they’ll never read them. He writes one to Francis, just because he feels like he should, even though they haven’t spoken in months. 

  
  


Eventually his hand gets too tired to write more. He puts both sets of letters in gallon ziplocs which Martha produces from nowhere. 

“Will you keep them safe for me, Martha?”

“Of course. I’ll give them to the right people at the right time if you can’t.”

##  Henry and Martha sit by John’s bedside. The doctors are moving in the background. John closes his eyes again. Both of them can hear his breath rattling in his chest. Martha’s holding his hand again.

“Damn tulips,” John mutters. “If I die--”

“You won’t die,” interrupts Henry. “I swear it.”

“Okay, but if I do die, no tulips at the-- the funeral. And-- if you can manage it, I know it’ll be hard with the relatives-- but could you get me cremated? I don’t--”

“Yeah, I know,” Martha interjects. “Under the sky in the willow grove, by the stream.”

John coughs, leans to the side, spits petals and blood into a bin the doctors have put there.

“You know me so well.”

“How did this happen?” Henry asks softly. “Last time this happened you were okay.”

“Last time this happened was different in several ways. Number one, it didn’t start out as bad. Marigolds are easier to deal with. Number two, Francis actually liked me--” John takes a breath and resolves to speak more quietly. His throat aches.

Martha interrupts. “Hold on, you dated Francis? Which Francis?” 

“Kinloch. We broke up a while ago. But anyway, he liked me, he was single, I asked him out and we dated, so everything just went away once we got together. For some reason, even though he dumped me, it didn’t come back after we broke up.”

“What’s-- his name? The boy all this is for.” Henry gestures vaguely around the room. 

It’s strange for John to hear those words from his father’s mouth, an open admission. Henry finds it strange too. There has been so much silence between them on this topic that using the pronouns is an oddity. John offers him a small smile. The irony of it is not lost on him, that Henry would be able to name it and accept it as John is on his deathbed.

“Nope, not telling you,” John whispers, hoping it sounds like a joke, or shyness, rather than a decision made out of fear that in the event of his death, Henry, ever-protective, would hunt Alexander down.

“We’ll call him Tulip Boy, then.” Martha smiles.

Henry nods. “Tulip Boy. Why is this worse than before with him, then?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s got a girlfriend. So I can’t go after him, so I just have to get over him, and I tried, but it’s not working.”

“Did you take your meds?”

John winces. “...No?” Henry sighs, obviously disappointed. “They make me feel horrible!” he says, trying to defend himself. He said it a bit too loudly; his throat twinges, and he fights back a cough. “I just, feel gross and  _ bleh _ and terrible and can’t sleep when I take them, and I thought I could get over it by myself.”

A doctor, a woman wearing a name tag identifying her as Dr. Greenfeld walks up to him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but this says you’re on Hakinol? Is that correct?”

John nods. The doctor blinks. “Well, I suppose that explains it.” She pauses for a moment. “Who on earth would have ever decided to put  _ you  _ on Hakinol? I realize that doesn’t make much sense, but anyone with sense would be able to predict that it’d have extreme negative effects. You have both a family and a personal history of depression and insomnia, for crying out loud. Of course you didn’t want to take it. When you’re being released we’ll go over your other options.”

She says it so matter-of-factly, as if it’s a sure thing he will leave the hospital. John’s not even confident he’ll survive the night.

Martha can read his thoughts on his face; she always could. She strokes his hair and murmurs, “You can do this.”

Eventually, the doctor tells him he can’t talk anymore. “If you continue to speak, you’re going to irritate your throat more.” 

Martha pulls a writing tablet from her bag-- he idly wonders where she got it, it’s fancy enough that he doesn’t think she took it from their siblings-- and hands it to him. He writes messages to her, draws silly little comics, even manages to make her laugh once or twice. Eventually, around three am, she falls asleep in her chair, leaning to one side. Henry Laurens remains awake throughout the night, typing on his laptop furiously and glancing over to John every few minutes. John drinks water, coughs, spits blood and petals into a bin. At one point, Henry asks if John needs anything. John writes that he wishes he had his phone, which he thought he left behind at the house; as it turns out, Henry had pocketed it before they left.

  
  


He’s on group chats that go all night. He lurks on them, watching his friends text and respond to each other, but adds nothing. He can’t bear to pretend everything is okay. Alexander texts him around five in the morning.

_ Hamilham: John? You there? _

_ Hamilham: I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding me, but whatever I did _

_ Hamilham: (let’s be honest, I probably did something bad that hurt you in some way and didn’t even notice) _

_ Hamilham: i’m sorry _

John stares at his phone for several minutes. What is he supposed to say to  _ that _ ? He finally manages to reply. 

_ PlaceToBe: not yr fault  _

John sleeps fitfully and dreams about Alexander. Nothing goes wrong in his dreams; Alexander’s running through dark streets, laughing and whooping, and the rest of their friends are following in a pack. Even though it should be a happy dream, it stings to know that Alexander will never be his. He wakes with a start when he suddenly can’t breathe at all. He coughs up flower petals, including a whole tulip head this time, and blood. So much blood. It makes him dizzy to look at it. The doctors fuss, take notes, and increase the dosage of the medication they’re pumping into him through the IV line.

Henry and Martha go home for breakfast and come back quickly, bringing waffles which Courtney made for the kids still at home. The nurse on duty-- the doctor’s disappeared to god knows where-- only lets him eat half of one. “You’ll make yourself sick. The meds can cause nausea.” He’s still hungry, but his throat hurts badly enough that he doesn’t care so much.

His father has explained the situation to Mary Eleanor and Henry Jr. Unfortunately, Courtney was in the room at the time. Even more unfortunately, her best friend Bethany Crystal has a way of getting secrets out of people.

John doesn’t show up at school. By nine o’clock, it’s common knowledge around town that he’s in the hospital, but no one can quite figure out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment or kudos if you enjoyed it!


	3. gasping, part iii: 'i'm sorry'

_ Hamilham: John, where are you? _

_ Hamilham: John? _

_ Hamilham: JOHN WTF IS IT TRUE YOU’RE IN THE HOSPITAL _

“Eliza!” Alex shouts across the hall. “Come here, it’s important!”

She makes her way over to him and sees his stricken expression. “Okay, this is actually serious, then. What’s wrong?”

“John’s in the hospital! I just found out, but I managed to confirm that it’s true with the Laurens’ family’s standard babysitter, but she wouldn't tell me why he’s in the hospital--”

“How did you even confirm it with her? Whatever, that’s not important now. Are you thinking we should go visit him?”

“Yeah! We have to. He could…” Alexander trails off nervously. He’s biting his lip and wringing his hands.

Eliza offers him a reassuring smile. “Are we skipping school, then?”

Alexander isn’t in history class, which surprises very few people. Eliza is absent from English, which is a relatively novel occurrence.

The two of them rush to the hospital and tell the receptionist they’re here to see John Laurens. She frowns and tells them to sit down. Alexander and Eliza don’t talk as they wait.

Alexander hates hospitals. He hasn’t trusted faceless doctors to heal people he loves since the death of his mother. The time Lafayette got a concussion, Alex was beside himself with worry; he paced the hallway outside the room where Lafayette was recovering until the nurses let him in, then argued with several doctors and got himself kicked out. He wasn’t able to relax or sleep well until Laf returned home. Eliza doesn’t have many opinions on hospitals, but she doesn’t like seeing Alexander so upset, and of course she’s worried about John. It occurs to her that even though she doesn’t dislike hospitals, after this she’s sure she will.

Waiting is agony. Alexander tries not to hope that John will be okay when they get there, to think it’s just a broken leg or a sprained ankle. When the receptionist calls them up to her desk, his entire being is tense. What follows is worse than he could ever imagine.

She tells them to leave. “John Laurens, in room 563? He is not accepting visitors at this time.” He can hear  _ get out _ in the tone of her voice. Alexander nearly screams at her, but Eliza pulls him away and out of the door. He almost yells at her too, if not for the dim whisper in the back of his mind, telling him that Eliza doesn’t deserve it. When she offers him a smile and a second plan, he’s glad he restrained himself.

Eliza knows how to get into the hospital by the back entrance. Alexander sneaks in alone; Eliza gets back to class. She’s more concerned about skipping than Alex is, and, in her words, “someone needs to distract and detain various parental figures who might be suspicious.” He wanders the hallways until he finds room 563.

Alexander is lucky. Henry and Martha are out for a quick, harried lunch at home. Henry will yell at several people on the phone in the middle of it. Martha will keep her thoughts to herself. Afterwards they will need to visit Henry’s office. It will be an hour before they return. Alexander does not know this; he is prepared to meet anyone when he opens the door, but he is not prepared for the way John looks.

He’s lying in a hospital bed, alone in a vast expanse of white. His lovely freckled face is pale enough that he nearly blends into the sheets; his eyes are closed, his hair is disarrayed and matted with blood, and there’s an IV stuck in his arm. The only color in the room comes from the blood on his face, dripping from his mouth and staining his hospital gown, and the purple-blue petals scattered around him. 

Alex sucks in a breath. John in that moment is like a fallen angel, weak and pitiful and far too close to a body or a ghost to look at him directly. He approaches the bed slowly. “John?”

“Alexander?” John coughs, jerking upright, his eyes flying open. “Why are you here?”

“What happened to you?”

John takes a gasping breath. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I couldn’t just leave you.”

“I don’t want to see you.”

Alex takes a step forward. “Why are you mad at me? Why have you been avoiding me? What happened? And what did I do that’s so important you’re still avoiding me when you’re bleeding in a hospital bed? I need answers, John.”

John coughs again. “Fine. We’ll talk. Come closer. It hurts to talk this loud.”

Alexander sits down at his bedside. “You look terrible.”

John chuckles. There’s blood dripping down the side of his face. “Hanahaki will do that to you.”

“So it is Hanahaki.”

  
“Wow-- you’re so-- smart,” he says, his mocking tone showing through even though he has to cough a few times in between words. “The blood and the flowers-- definitely-- didn’t give it away.”

“Shut up. Why didn’t you tell any of us?”

“I’m not-- obligated to tell you guys everything.”

“How long has this been going on? We could have helped somehow, if we’d known.”

  
“You couldn’t have. You couldn’t have helped.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Realized-- feelings last Friday, got flowers on Saturday. Passed out-- in my bedroom yesterday night. Dad found me.”

Alex leans closer. “What can you do to stop it?”

“Just gotta wait. The medicine helps. I tried to-- get over it. Didn’t work.”

  
“Who is it, John? Do they know?”

John smiles thinly. “If he doesn’t know at this point, he’s a goddamn idiot.”

Alex is baffled for a moment until the implication hits him. “Oh.”

John laughs bitterly, then coughs. He takes a second to get it under control. “Guess you’re a goddamn idiot.”

Alexander’s mind is racing. John— crushing on him? How had he failed to notice? Was he really that oblivious? What should he do now? Questions without answers spin around in his brain. He realizes John’s waiting for him to respond. _ Say something!  _

“I’m sorry.” As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows they’re woefully inadequate. But he is sorry. That’s the truth, and the truth will have to be enough for now.

John spits out a petal. “Not your fault. You didn’t do anything.”

Alex doesn’t know quite what to say, which is rare for him. Suddenly, even though he came here wanting to see John, all he wants to do is escape, to get away from his friend, who’s suffering, because of a crush on him that he doesn’t reciprocate. 

“Is there… anything I can do?”

John doesn’t reply for a moment. When he does speak, it’s abrupt and changes the subject. “I wrote you a letter. I wrote-- all our friends a letter. In the plastic bag, on the table.” He points. “Take them, will you? Give them-- out to everyone.”

He nods. “Of course. Will do.”

John gives him a small smile, but it’s quickly interrupted by a fit of coughing. Alexander reaches towards him, but decides not to touch him at the last second. John spits out petals and recollects himself. “Thank you.”

“They said you weren’t accepting visitors.”

“Oh, yeah. Dad must’ve told them not to-- how’d you-- even get in here?”

“I snuck in. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t just--”

John sighs. “I didn’t want to see you. But you’re here, so I guess--”

“Yeah.” A thought occurs to him. “Would you be okay with seeing the rest of our friends? Should I tell them not to come?”

“They can come. I’d like-- to see Laf and Herc. And the Schuylers. But, Alex-- please don’t come back.”

Alex bites his lip. “All right. That’s fair.” He’s forcing the words out. He can’t decide if he’d want to visit again, but the fact that John’s telling him not to return still stings like sap in his eyes. “When will I see you again?”

“When I go back-- to school.” He says it like it’s obvious, an assured thing that he’ll survive this. He’s not really sure; he’s only projecting confidence because he doesn’t want to tell Alexander he may never see him again. John turns his head to the side and spits out more petals. 

“You promise?”

John nods. “Yeah. I promise.”

“All right, then. I’m sorry for bothering you.” He doesn’t smile; he can’t find the energy to force one, even though he feels like it’s the right thing to do. “I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Alex.”

He picks up the bag of letters and leaves the room, looking back for a moment when he reaches the doorway, but quickly facing forward again. Seeing John like this consumes his mind with worry and guilt, and it hits him especially hard knowing that it’s his fault. His footsteps echo on the white linoleum as he walks away from John’s room. 

John stares at the open door for a few minutes. He absolutely didn’t expect Alex to come to visit, but he’s glad he at least told Alex the truth. But then again, should he have lied to save Alexander the guilt in the event of his death? He ponders this until he eventually falls into a restless sleep.

Alexander sneaks out of the hospital, but doesn’t return to school immediately. He stands on the bridge over the creek, tossing pebbles into the water, watching ripples flow outward and get lost in the current, and trying to shake off the lingering guilt.

He returns in time to take his last class, which he has with Eliza. She catches his eye, asking a wordless question.  _ What happened? _

Alexander forces a smile. She can tell. She can always tell.  _ Later,  _ he mouths. She nods, and turns back to face the front, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts.

After class, the six of them meet in one of the commons areas, as they always do. It’s strange to meet up without John there. The Schuylers don’t consistently meet them, but Laf and Herc and John and Alex are always there. They all feel his absence, like a hole in their hearts.

Alex takes a breath and pulls the letters out of his bag. 

“So Betsey and I skipped today to visit him.” He doesn’t need to say John’s name; they all know who he means, and it’s easier not to say it outright. “Because she’s amazing, she knew how to sneak into the hospital, even though they wouldn’t let us in. So I snuck in and long story short we had a conversation and apparently he wrote you all letters, and he also wanted me to say that he wants you guys to come see him. Not me, though.”

Lafayette looks at him blankly. “Could we have, ah, a summary of the situation? Before we read the letters, to make it easier to understand?”

“Yeah, I think that would be good,” Angelica adds.

Alexander starts handing the letters out, just to have something to do, and so that he doesn’t have to meet their eyes.

“Apparently John has Hanahaki and hasn’t told any of us, and he passed out last night and his dad took him to the hospital. And you know, Hanahaki is chronic, but this time it’s my fault, and that’s why he doesn’t want to see me again. He wants to see you guys, though. I think he’s lonely.”

Peggy sighs. “Damn. You think he’ll be okay?”

Eliza bites her lip. “Do you think he’s mad at me?”

“He’s not mad at you, Eliza. And I really don’t know, Pegs. Go visit him, okay? I know it’s hard to see him like that, but it might help.”

“We will,” Herc says. “Alex, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m not the relevant one here, anyway.” He picks up his backpack and walks away from his friends. He can’t bear to stay there another second, not when it feels like everyone’s cursing him under their breath for potentially causing John’s death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh... sorry?  
> (please comment and leave kudos, it makes my day)


	4. coin flip

_ There is so much in this world that is up to chance and fate. A stroke of luck can change the world in ways no one expects. Trip and cause a death. Drop a quarter and save a life. Chain reactions and unfolding events; the world is a glorified Rube Goldberg machine, my friends, and the sooner you learn this, the easier it will be to understand stories like this one.  _

_ Lucretia Greenfeld pores over her patients’ charts in between sips of coffee at home. It relaxes her. Sometimes she picks up on things no one else sees. When a patient mysteriously fails to recover, someone who knows her will tell the bemused doctors to send it to Lucretia. Doing this is one of the things that makes her feel like she has done more good than harm by going into medicine. _

_ She’s leafing through the charts of one J. Laurens. She often has difficulty remembering her patients’ names, but she realizes immediately that this is the Hanahaki kid in room 563. Hanahaki has never been a disease she’s good with. The kid makes her nervous. It’s not anything he does, per se; he’s a typical teenager, but he’s in pain and nothing she’s done seems to help him. She’s on edge, thinking that one misstep could kill him. _

_ She decides to check his family history and quite quickly ends up sucked down a rabbit hole of research. After an hour of this, she can’t find anything to prove a connection, but it still makes her uneasy. _

_ There have been a few Hanahaki patients who have developed tolerance to the active ingredients of nearly all of the standard hospital-grade anti-Hanahaki drugs, including the Hanekene they’ve been giving Laurens. These patients seem to have very little in common, except that all of them also experienced negative side effects when taking Hakinol. Her mind wandered back to the kid in 563. His reported negative reaction to Hakinol was probably innocuous. Probably. She decides to ask someone about it the next day. _

_ It’s all down to chance. Lucretia Greenfeld trips on her way to work. It takes her about two minutes to pick everything up and continue on her way. She misses the bus and has to wait for another. She is five minutes late to the hospital and she absolutely does not have time to ask questions to Anna-Maria Lopez-Garcia, their resident Hanahaki specialist. More specifically, she does not have time to ask if she should make alterations to the medication of one J. Laurens. When they pass each other in the hall, she hurries by. The Laurens kid is probably fine on Hanekene; he seems to be recovering, after all. When she has another opportunity to speak to Dr. Lopez-Garcia, she’s completely forgotten what it was she meant to ask about. _

_ The coin lands tails and bad luck is on the way. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really (really) short chapter, so there'll be another one quite soon. Stay tuned.


	5. tails: to try to go on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the one with the character death. Feel free to skip this chapter; the next three chapters will be an alternate ending so you can avoid heartbreak.

It’s been days. John can’t stop coughing.

Henry and Martha are sitting by John’s bedside. There are petals in his curly hair and blood on the side of his face. His eyes are closed. He’s holding both of their hands. His face is as colorless as the room; red and purple-blue are the only hues to speak of. Martha has always hated the color red. Henry is slowly starting to loathe the unique purple-blue of the petals.

“Just stay alive, John. You can do this. You were getting better.” Martha squeezes his hand, releases, and waits for him to squeeze back. They’ve found that this is the best way to tell if he’s still there. It’s been hours since John has spoken. When he opens his eyes occasionally, the two of them can see the pain in them.

John had been getting better, before something changed. There are different doctors on his case now, but they don’t seem to have a clue what’s happening to him. Martha and Henry don’t know either. No one knows.

(Lucretia Greenfeld had been reassigned, and had not remembered that John could potentially develop a tolerance to the medicine.)

“You can do this,” Henry echoes. “Just survive.”

John shakes his head. “No. ‘M not gonna make it,” he whispers.

Martha strokes his cheek. “You will. Don’t say that. Don’t. You’ll be fine. You have to be. We can’t lose you, not after already losing Mom.”

John opens his eyes and looks into Martha’s as if they’ll give him all the answers. “Sorry,” he chokes out.

“It’s not your fault. Just be okay, John.”

Henry Laurens moves closer. “I should have been better. I’m sorry. For failing you. I could have been a better father. I couldn’t have had a better son.”

John cracks a bloody smile. “You didn’t. Didn’t fail.”

His father puts his hand on John’s chest. He can feel his shaky breath. “Oh, John.”

John swallows. “I love you.” His eyes flutter closed.

Martha twitches nervously, squeezes his hand again, and lets out a breath when he squeezes back. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Henry echoes. “And we always will.”

“Always,” Martha says. 

The clock ticks. Two minutes is not a long time, barely a blink in the timeline of a life. Two minutes out of a day are only rarely memorable. It’s only a few times in the story of a person that two minutes contain the most important thing to happen in a year.

Two minutes later, Martha squeezes John’s hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.

##  \--

_ Everything is so dim,  _ Martha thinks. She feels like she’s underwater. She’s slow to think and react. If not for her father, she has no idea what would have happened.

Henry Laurens is more efficient than ever. He does not cry, not now, not when the doctors tell him John is dead, not when they take him away, cold and lifeless, not when the Hanahaki specialist tells him it is within his rights to sue the hospital. He does what is needed. He has no choice but to do what is needed.

Telling the father and the daughter that he, John, his son, her brother, is dead is one of the moments that makes Dr. Greenfeld wish she had forsaken med school and become a teacher. Dr. Lopez-Garcia almost never cries, but after explaining to Mr. Laurens all the things the hospital did wrong, there were cracks in her composure for a long time afterwards that only those who knew her well could see.

  
  


They decide not to sue the hospital. It won’t bring John back. The hospital does not charge them for the days John spent there, not after Henry looks the faceless man at the desk in the eye and tells him that they may let his son die, but they sure aren’t going to make him pay for the privilege. It is most definitely an enormous breach of protocol, but no one is willing to stand up to him.

There are so many faceless people who want things from the two of them. There is paperwork to fill out and phone calls to make and battles to fight. Henry argues with flat-voiced men at his work for over two hours. They refuse to allow him to take paid time off, or give him any more than a week of unpaid vacation; he pulls out every threat and connection he has. In the end, he quits. They have enough savings that he can afford to do so, for a while.

The two of them go home and have to tell Henry Jr. and Mary Eleanor. They’re young, young enough that losing their mother is a distant, blurry memory, but they still remember and they still know what it means.

Their house was meant for six. Until now, the five of them had managed. Such a house is too empty with only four people. They fall to the floor in the living room and grieve together.

Eliza is the first of John’s friends to know; when she is not let in at the hospital on the day after John’s death, she knocks on the Laurens’ door. Martha tells her what had happened, trying not to cry. Eliza hugs her and sets off to become the bearer of bad news to her friends.

Angelica looks weary when Eliza tells her. She’s got too much control over her own facial expressions to cry with anyone else around, but her sister knows she’ll be sobbing whenever she gets a moment alone.

When Eliza tells Peggy, she becomes silent and subdued for the rest of the day, speaking when necessary and making none of her usual jokes. Her hands stay clenched at her sides, not playing with the hem of her shirt or fidgeting with any of the many trinkets in her pockets.

Lafayette’s face crumples when she tells him. He mutters under his breath for a few moments, holding back tears. Hercules looks stricken, then mumbles an apology. He starts off towards the field, running as quickly as possible in the hope that adrenaline will numb the hurt.

Alexander freezes for a moment; when she asks if he’s okay, he replies that he has homework to do. She knows what this means and hugs him tightly for a moment. Grief is often too terrible to name; Eliza has known this for a long time.

The Laurens family has time and space to grieve. Courtney and Mrs. Willstreet stick around: they help cook, take care of the two younger children, and pick Martha up from school. All the while, Henry argues with distant relatives who want him buried in their family plot, even though some of them have never met John. Some ask about ‘the girl whose fault it is’ when they hear how he died. Henry barely manages to stop himself from shouting at them, telling them that it would never have been a girl and although he doesn’t know himself who the boy is, John never blamed him for the disease.

The funeral is horrid. There are so many relatives there who treat it as a social occasion. They chatter to themselves about each others lives all through the reception at the beginning. The service is worse. Seeing John dead aches. Seeing his lifeless body dressed in a suit and made to look pretty is enough to set Martha crying.

It’s all beautiful. It’s all very beautiful. Pretty flowers, roses and violets and lilies, although no tulips. Henry managed to get that, at least, as well as convincing the rest of the relatives that he should be cremated after the funeral. Several people make speeches about John’s life. His father makes one; the next day, he remembers nothing of what he said. It’s all very beautiful and poetic, which is exactly what Martha hates about it. Death shouldn’t be beautiful. John is gone forever. He’ll never smile again, never laugh, never speak. His absence is not a jewel to display. Martha wishes she could find the voice to scream, but all she can do is sob quietly. Mary Eleanor and Henry Jr. hold her hands. They haven’t spoken the whole time.

There is time, a few days, between the funeral and the day a faceless man presses a bronze urn into Henry’s hands. He gives it to Martha immediately. 

“Didn’t he tell you what to do?” 

He did tell her, in the letter he wrote to her before he died. She would have known anyway. She takes it and leaves, to do what needs to be done.

Alexander sits on the bridge, tossing stones into the water. Even though John had insisted the Hanahaki wasn’t his fault, he still felt guilt tugging at him.

“You said I’d see you at school,” he whispers. “You promised, you jerk.” His eyes burn with hot tears. “I’m sorry.”

The wind blows through Alex’s loose hair, playing with the collar of his black coat. If one listened well enough, with enough hope and imagination, one could hear in its rustle an echo of John’s voice, murmuring over and over the words  _ not your fault.  _

Martha stands in the willow grove by the stream, reaching up to the sky as if she might be able to pull a cloud from it.

“All those damn pretty words. Doesn’t matter now. Why do we bother?”

The bronze jar is heavy in her hands, cold metal against her skin. She kneels by the creek, placing the jar beside her, and dips her hands, whispering his name like a prayer. It takes her a while, but she finally stands up and opens it. It’s hard to look at the ashes left behind, and it scares her that after a while there will be nothing left of him.

She scatters the ashes anyway, because that’s what he wanted, and who is she to deny him that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...sorry.


	6. heads, part i: "not your fault"

_ Our most recent installment was in many ways the perfect ending. And yet, that is only one way our story could go. Remember what I said about the world being largely controlled by luck? Well, our story is no different. _

_ It’s all down to chance. Dr. Anna-Maria Lopez-Garcia drops a quarter in the hallway. It rolls across the tile and knocks into the shoe of one Lucretia Greenfeld. She bends down to pick it up and looks around to find the person who dropped it. And there she is, exactly the person she needed to talk to. _

_ “Here you are. Good to see you, I actually had a question to ask about the Hanahaki kid in 563.” _

_ The coin lands heads and luck is on John’s side. _

Henry and Martha are there when the doctors rush into room 563. Both of them are panicked, although Dr. Greenfeld shows it a lot more than Dr. Lopez-Garcia does. They pause and pull Henry to the side. John, lying in the hospital bed, half-dazed by the ache in his lungs which had been steadily worsening over the past few hours, only catches snatches of their conversation.

“Potential tolerance buildup-- history-- Hakinol-- go new medication-- Guarhanza--”

The doctors talk over each other, alternating between profuse apologies and medical information, but at the end of it Henry agrees that yes, it would be a good idea for John to be put on a medication to which he would most definitely not develop an immunity.

Within ten minutes, the doctors have switched the medication in John’s IV. Although the pain doesn’t ease for quite some time, he begins to recover again.

Days stretch into a week. John’s memories are blurry, and he loses all sense of time quite easily, but it’s better when his friends are there. The Schuylers visit every day. Eliza brings him drawing supplies and wipes the blood off his face. Angelica explains the latest drama— in school, in politics, in television— and forces him to “ _ stop talking,  _ John, you’re going to hurt yourself more.” He would never call Angelica his favorite Schuyler sister, not with how much she pesters him, but he does have to admit that he wouldn’t be doing nearly as well without her. Peggy cracks jokes and makes bad puns, and it’s refreshing, how  _ normal _ she is around him.

John finds it strange that Eliza still visits, even now that she knows he’s crushing on her boyfriend. He brings this up one time, scribbling  _ why aren’t you mad at me?  _ on his writing tablet, and she just smiles at him. 

“I thought you were mad at me. I’m the one who laid claim on him before you had a chance.”

_ He picked you, he would have picked you anyway,  _ John writes.

Eliza laughs. “I’m not so sure. Alexander can be indecisive.”

John tries to question this, but it’s easy for him to be ignored when he can’t speak. The conversation moves on, and John is left with lingering questions. John and Eliza fall back into their usual friendship and silently agree not to discuss Alexander.

Laf and Herc are there every day without fail, for hours at a stretch. Quite often, John opens his eyes to find them sitting in the corner, doing their homework. They rush over to him when they notice he’s awake. They, too, are refreshingly normal after a time. There were a few visits full of awkwardness and pitiful stares, which made John’s skin crawl, but they’ve gotten used to this version of the world.

John tries to be normal, but it’s difficult. The new meds make him easily exhausted; several times he’s fallen asleep in the middle of one of Lafayette’s vastly entertaining stories. And then there’s the fact that no one will let him talk, for good reason, but it’s frustrating to have to write it all out, to converse at a slower speed than everyone else. Herc tried to learn sign language, but John couldn’t pick it up, defeating the purpose. And then there are other times, things that make it impossible to ignore his disease.

Lafayette had finished recounting an especially entertaining anecdote which had occurred at school that day. Herc had made a pun about it, involving no fewer than three inside jokes, and followed it immediately up with crude humor. It’d set them all off, but John especially; he laughed so hard, it sent him into a coughing fit. He’d been spitting petals all over the bedsheets, unable to breathe or control his own lungs. The doctor had been in the room and had aided him quickly, but for the rest of the day his friends didn’t make jokes, even though John told them it was fine, it wasn’t their fault, and they didn’t need to worry.

Two weeks of this, and and John is tired of being sick. There are times when he wants nothing more than to feel good again. He’d settle for feeling okay, or even feeling numb.

“I just want to be  _ normal,”  _ he says to Eliza, one time when the Schuylers are visiting. Before she can say anything in response, Peggy interrupts.

“I really don’t thing that’s feasible. You’re an innately bizarre person, John.”

John makes a face and throws one of his pillows at her. She throws it back immediately, hitting him in the face and acting completely unremorseful, even though the doctors scold her, since she could have knocked his IV out of place. There are times when he thinks Peggy is his favorite Schuyler.

A week and a half later, the doctors decide that John’s healthy enough to return home. As she promised, Dr. Greenfeld prescribed him different medications. Henry Jr. and Mary Eleanor tackle him as soon as he walks in the door, and he lets them, sore lungs and unsteadiness from being confined to a bed so long be damned. He’s glad to be back. Lying on the floor in the living room in a pile of his siblings, he almost feels okay.

On Tuesday, he goes back to school. He keeps his head down and tries to avoid being the subject of gossip; it’s a tall order in a town like this, but he manages to avoid being interrogated by many people. He has to talk a lot more to the teachers, because no one is used to his scribbles, but when students try to ask about his absence, they give up as soon as he pulls out his writing tablet. It's several hours of stumbling through his classes in a haze, teachers pressing make-up work on him every which way, before Alexander sees him.

They’re in the hallway, which is so crowded that navigating it is nearly impossible. Everyone’s bumping into everyone else, which is not helping the ache in John’s chest. He’s already exhausted.

By chance, Alex happens to be swept along in the tide of students and ends up right next to John. He blinks as if not believing his own eyes, then raises one hand in greeting.

“Hey.”

John is momentarily taken aback, then copies the gesture. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry.” Alex regrets saying it again immediately.

John smiles, closed-mouthed, just wide enough that Alex is sure he’s not imagining it. 

“Not your fault.”

That’s all they have time for before they’re swept away from each other by the hallway’s living current. Later that day, Alexander sits next to him at lunch and fires questions at him far too quickly. John scribbles his responses down; his voice is already sore from talking to so many people, and his friends are the only ones who are used to it already. Alexander is not, as they haven’t seen each other for most of the time John was in the hospital, but he gets used to John’s occasional silence soon enough.

Another day, another hallway, another chance meeting. Alexander smiles tentatively at John, who has nearly bumped into him. “Hey.”

“Hey.” John coughs, clamps a hand over his mouth, and swallows hard.

Alex feels guilt prickling at him. Even now that John’s up and about and acting much more normal, he still doesn’t like that John’s in pain because of him. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles, an honest, wide grin. Alex can see traces of blood on his teeth. “Not your fault.” He stumbles away before Alex can say anything else, which is probably for the best.

Alex still doesn’t quite believe that John’s illness is in no way his fault, but it reassures him nonetheless, and even though he probably doesn’t need to keep apologizing, he decides he’ll continue. In the back of his mind he senses that if they keep doing it, it’ll turn into an inside joke.

It does indeed crystallize into an inside joke, quite quickly; on notes passed in class and post-it’s on lockers, they repeat the same conversation. It’s almost symmetrical, like a yin-yang of speech; two greetings, an apology, and a dismissal. He finds that the more John says ‘not your fault’ the more he starts to believe it, and seeing John goes from painfully awkward to once again being the highlight of his day. 

The guilt about hurting John dissipates, but unfortunately it’s replaced by a different form of shame, pertaining to Eliza. He really can’t deny it to himself anymore, not when he starts noticing the flutters in his stomach when John smiles. He can still pretend it’s not there, though. He can still pretend he and John are normal friends. There are periods lasting hours or days when he forgets the fact that every cough and every petal is proof that John’s still crushing on him.

There’s a time when Alexander cannot get across the throng of students to talk to John. “Hey!” he shouts from across the bustling hallway. 

John stops and turns towards him. “Hey!”

“I’m sorry!” he yells. People are staring.

“Not your fault!” John’s throat is sore, and he has to swallow hard before he smiles, but it’s worth it. He chokes from laughter several times while telling Peggy about this exchange at lunch. It’s a gradual process, but light has begun to come back into John’s life.


	7. heads, part ii: to touch a heart

Time passes and life goes on. John has good days and bad days and horrible, painful days. His friends are always there; they put up with the times he can’t talk, worry about him when his throat is too sore to eat, and comfort him when he just wants to scream or cry or break things from the unfairness of it all. And Alexander is there, making jokes and laughing and acting like his normal self, most of the time.

“Hey!” Alex shouts from the empty stage, a few minutes before the talent show is supposed to start. A few heads turn in his direction, but they quickly lose interest. Most people in the school know three things about Alexander Hamilton: that he is prone to shouting, he rarely makes sense to normal people, and whatever he says is almost never important for the average student.

“Are you two really gonna do this now?” asks Angelica, leaning over the railing on the balconies. Peggy is stifling snickers. Eliza’s suppressing a smile. Angelica, as usual, is unamused and unsurprised.

John, beside her, nods, coughs, then shouts back. “Hey!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Not your fault!” John yells at the top of his voice, which is pretty loud. It’s a good day for him; shouting like that only made his throat hurt a bit. Alex is cracking up, a genuine smile on his face. John’s laughing in the way he’s always laughed recently, a scratchy sound interrupted by coughs occasionally. Peggy and Eliza join them, and even Angelica cracks a smile after a few seconds. 

There’s a day when Alexander decides not to lie to John in silence anymore. The two of them are sitting on the school rooftop, legs dangling over the edge. There’s no one else around, or at least no one they notice.

“Nice day, hmm?” John murmurs. His voice is raspy, but when he speaks in whispers, it doesn’t hurt. It’s a good day, all things considered.

“Yeah.” John’s hand is resting on the rooftop between the two of them; Alex stares into space, works up the courage, and puts his hand on top of John’s.

John stops watching the sky and whips his head around to look into Alexander’s eyes. “Alex, what are you doing?” He says it too loudly, coughs a bit, and swallows hard before making eye contact again.

“I…” He intertwines their fingers and smiles weakly. “Holding your hand?”

John sighs. “You… have Eliza.”

“He does,” calls a voice from below. Eliza’s looking up at the two of them from the concrete below. 

John pulls his hand away from Alex, feeling like he’s been caught shoplifting. Alex opens his mouth, but Eliza makes a shushing gesture. “Help me up first.”

Alexander scrambles over and holds out a hand over the edge to her; she uses the gutter pipe to climb up, then pulls herself onto the roof with his help.

John backs away, holding his hands up. “Eliza, I swear, I didn’t…”

“He didn’t do anything, it was me, I, Eliza--”

She shushes them again and crosses the rooftop. “No.” She takes John’s hand by the wrist, pulls him over to Alexander, and gently forces John’s hand into his. “Let’s not talk about it.” She turns to go. Alexander is too stunned to respond, and it really doesn’t help that his heart is fluttering just from touching him.

John reaches out to Eliza. “Liz, wait.” He pulls her in and puts her hand in Alexander’s free one. “Let’s not talk about it.”

Eliza smiles at him. When Alexander comes back to his senses, the two of them know exactly what’s going on in the other’s mind, though Alex himself is still lost. He squeezes both their hands. “We probably should talk about it.”

“We should,” John agrees.

And they will, and they do, but first they sit silently on the rooftop for a while, leaning on each other and watching the clouds. It’s a good day, all things considered.

John starts getting better much more quickly. Martha is baffled.

“What even  _ happened?  _ You were recovering in a zigzaggy way and suddenly you’ve got half as many petals as before! People don’t do that!”

John shrugs and manages to keep himself from smiling. He’s not willing to explain the thing they’ve got going on yet. He wants time for himself and Alexander and Eliza. Martha doesn’t really need to know.

For a few weeks, the three of them hold a semi-open secret. Alex and Eliza remain the mushiest couple, but Alex walks John to class in the morning and holds his hand while doing so. All three of them go out for coffee a few towns away; no one knows them there, and Eliza laughs at Alexander’s ridiculous blush when John draws a heart on his coffee cup. “I swear, Alexander, people can probably see you from outer space. You’re not this much of a mess about me.”

“Oh, he is,” John remarks casually, stealing a sip of her peppermint mocha, extra whip. “He just hides it better around you. We have a groupchat— Laf, Herc, Lex, and me, that is— and for a while it was named ‘alex stfu abt yr gf challenge’.”

“Hey!”

Alex pokes John in the ribs, but Eliza’s giggling, and they have no choice but to join her.

There’s a day when the three of them agree to meet to pick wild strawberries. It was Eliza’s idea; she’d suggested it the night before in their groupchat (the name of which is constantly changing; at the moment it’s “b♡e♡s♡t s♡q♡a♡u♡d”, which Alexander pretends to despise but secretly loves. They all agree to meet in a specific clearing at ten am sharp and to bring packed lunches. Yet, inexplicably, she was late for a date she’d planned. Eliza was never late.

“Wonder where Lizzy is,” Alex remarks. The two of them are leaning against an oak tree, holding hands, sun on their faces. 

John considers this. “We should text her,” he says, smiling. It’s a good day; it doesn’t hurt him to talk, even the slightest bit. He’s had a lot of good days recently. Alex nods, so John whips out his phone. 

_ PlaceToBe: where are you? alex and i are in the woods. it’s weird that you’re late _

_ Schuyler Numero Dos: I am not late. I am arriving at exactly the time I want to be arriving at. _

_ PlaceToBe: which is when? _

_ Schuyler Numero Dos: About half an hour from now. Have fun with our Alex. _

John nearly drops his phone, staring at it in disbelief. 

“What’d she say?” Alex asks, leaning on his shoulder.

John turns to him, shaking his head. “Your girlfriend set us up. She’s not coming for half an hour.”

Alex freezes for a moment, then smiles. “If there were such a thing as a Best Girlfriend Ever Award, it would absolutely go to Eliza Schuyler.”

“It probably would,” he agrees, poking Alex’s cheeks.

Alex swats him. “So, you gonna kiss me or what?”

“Lex, that is the opposite of romantic.”

“You like me anyway, though.”

“Can’t dispute that,” John says, spitting out a tulip petal.

The two of them have their first kiss under the oak tree. When they pull apart, they can’t stop smiling at each other. Alex tries to say something, but his mind has gone blank-- or rather, it’s completely filled with John. He can’t think of anything to do but kiss him again. 

When Eliza arrives, exactly half an hour later, John’s lying on top of Alex, who doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

“Alex, you’ve got blood on your cheek,” she says, sitting down next to them and setting down three tin buckets.

“I’m sorry,” John replies immediately, pulling a tissue from his pocket and wiping the smear off his face.

Alex grins mischievously. “Not your fault.”

John pokes him. “It quite literally is, though.”

He shrugs. “Should’ve expected it, kissing you.”

“Shouldn’t it be gone by now, though? The Hanahaki, I mean,” Eliza asks, kissing Alex’s cheek quickly.

“Nah. It’s getting better, really fast-- Martha’s so confused about it, but I feel like Dad might have guessed, although that’s another story-- but it’s not just gonna poof because your boyfriend is now also my boyfriend. And I’m still gonna have it, it’s not like it’s permanently cured forever. It’ll go away, though. Probably pretty soon.”

“That’s good.”

John points at her. “As well as being, in Alex’s opinion, the Best Girlfriend Ever, you are also Queen of Understatements.”

Laughing, she stands up and tosses a bucket to John. “So, now that I’m here, shall we get to strawberry picking?”

John tries to get on his feet, but Alexander pulls him back down. “Two more minutes. I need more hugs.”

“You are  _ so _ clingy. Eliza, how did you survive him before, all by yourself?”

“I don’t know, honestly.” She laughs and lies down next to them. The three of them end up tangled together in a cuddle pile and stay there for much longer than two minutes, until John insists that as much as he’s enjoying this, he needs to actually pick strawberries, or he won’t be able to make a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

In the early afternoon, they return, lips stained red with strawberry juice, hand in hand, swinging full buckets. At the last second, as they’re walking up John’s street, Eliza decides that he should take her strawberries as well as his own.

“Peggy will steal them all if I bring them home. Take mine and make more pies.”

“And bring us some,” Alex puts in. He’s unwilling to relinquish his fruit, claiming they’re the best he’s ever had.

“That’s a given. Not like I’d make pies and not bring some of it to my boyfriend and my favorite Schuyler.”

“Peggy’d be offended if she heard that,” Eliza says, the corners of her juice-stained mouth turning up.

“Good thing she’s not here, then.” John turns onto his driveway and drops Alex’s hand. “So, this is my house.”

“We both know that,” Alex and Eliza reply in the same breath. 

John puts both buckets of strawberries down. “Can I have a hug before you two go?” 

Alex sets his bucket down carefully and runs towards him. He barely manages to keep from falling over when Alexander collides with him, even though Eliza gets there first and supports him from the back. They hold onto each other for a moment before John pulls away. He stands in the driveway for a minute, watching the two of them disappear into the distance, before picking up the two strawberry buckets and climbing the stairs to the Laurens house.


	8. heads, part iii: to warm a life

John doesn’t have time to put his key into the lock before his father opens it from the inside. Henry Laurens steps backwards to give him space to step through the open door. John’s thrown off balance, although he can’t put his finger on why.

There’s something off about the energy of the room; even though he doesn’t notice anything dramatically different, the whole house feels warmer and brighter. The sun is streaming through the front windows, maybe a bit more than it usually does, and John takes off his shoes at the door, even though he doesn’t usually do that. He sets down the strawberries on the coffee table and turns to face Henry, who is smiling tentatively. John steps forward and pulls him into a hug; he’s not sure why, but in that moment, it feels like the right thing to do.

He’s only stiff for a second before he relaxes into the hug. “Where did you go? Did you have a good time?” he murmurs.

“I went strawberry picking. With Alex and Eliza.” It’s not exactly evading the question, but he’s not saying the most important part of it. Somehow, he doesn’t think this is the right moment to tell his father he’s dating Alexander, who happens to be Tulip Boy, who happens to also be dating Eliza Schuyler.

Henry nods and steps back and out of the hug, somehow sensing his son’s unease. “That’s where you got the strawberries, then. What are you planning to do with them?”

“I was thinking I’d make pies this afternoon. We still have rhubarb, correct?”

“We do. That’s a good idea. I was wondering what we were going to do with the rhubarb.” He leans down and picks up the strawberry buckets. “Do you need help making them?”

John opens his mouth, about to say that no, he doesn’t need help, he will do fine on his own, thank you very much, then closes it.

There’s a phrase (is it a proverb? a motto? did Eliza invent it herself? he doesn’t know) Eliza often says to Alexander when he’s getting stubborn in his resolve to be self-made.  _ Just because you can do it by yourself doesn’t mean you have to walk alone.  _

The thought occurs to him that whether or not he really needs the help, Henry would appreciate being asked and being let in. He opens his mouth again; it only takes him a second to push the right words out into the air. 

“I would love help. Thanks, Dad.” 

The kitchen is clean and bright, as it always is, but it feels warmer once the counters are covered with scattered containers and measuring cups, juice-stained cutting boards and spilled flour and all the detritus and mess that comes with baking pies. It definitely feels more like home once Martha is sitting at the kitchen table, kicking her feet and watching John mix dough while Henry chops rhubarb. She occasionally darts into the kitchen proper, walking behind them and getting in their way, steals one or two strawberries, and returns to her seat.

(John eventually puts her to work rolling dough; if she wants to be in the way, she’d better help out while she’s at it, and besides, Martha has always been good at getting pastry dough to a perfectly even thickness, in a way John’s always struggled to imitate.)

John hasn’t been in the kitchen since before he was in the hospital, and it no longer feels like it belongs entirely to him. The vanilla isn’t in the right place anymore; when John finally finds it, at the back of the spice rack, buried behind the cinnamon, he wants to throw it at the wall, but when Martha and Henry have a joking argument over who moved it and John places it back where it belongs, it erases the bitter taste in his mouth.

Eventually Martha excuses herself-- something about homework she didn’t do yet, despite it being Sunday afternoon, which is quite late in the weekend for Martha to still have work. No one quite believes her, but they let it slide.

John and Henry continue cooking, slowly becoming unconsciously synchronized. John doesn’t realize it until he turns to get the sugar and finds that his father is holding the bag out to him, knowing that he’d need it right then. John takes it, smiling, and senses the whole house’s mood shift, everything feeling just a little brighter.

When the whole house starts to smell like baking pies, John’s siblings dash down the stairs, one after another. Henry Jr. trips downstairs at a ridiculous speed, prompting a chorus of “Henry, be  _ careful, _ ” echoing from all quarters, including Martha, who came down behind him at a much more normal pace. Mary Eleanor arrived last, wandering into the kitchen, eyes lighting up when she saw John check on the pie in the oven.

They end up with four pies, each browned to perfection and glistening with juice. The air is sticky with evaporated juice, blasting John in the face when he opens the oven. The steam from the finished pies rises into the air, filling the whole room with the sour-sweet scents of strawberry and rhubarb. John can’t blame his siblings for being in a hurry to try it, but he still guards the pies, pushing away Martha and Henry Jr. when they try to sneak tastes.

“How many do you think we should freeze? Three, maybe?” his father asks, taking a step away from the sink and emerging from the cloud of steam and soap bubbles that surrounded him.

John shakes his head. “Two. Leaving two left. I promised Alex and Eliza that I’d bring them some, and everyone knows Henry’ll take as much as he can get.”   
  


“Hey!”

“I’m not blaming you, kiddo. I’m definitely going to make sure I get more than one slice.” John slaps Henry’s hand gently. “Don’t put your fingers in the pie.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Henry retorts, but the conversation has moved on without him. 

“All right. We’ll freeze two, then.” Henry nods and goes back to the dishes.

Martha pipes up. “You promised Alex and Eliza pie? Just, them, not Lafayette and Hercules too?”

“Nope. Laf and Herc weren’t there to make me promise them pie. Eliza gave me her strawberries-- only half of these I picked-- so I definitely need to deliver on that promise.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Laf and Herc weren’t there? But Alex was? Usually when you do things, you go with your ‘squad’ or maybe them and all three Schuylers. Since when do you go strawberry picking with just Alex and Eliza?”

John shrugs noncommittally, trying not to let any of his secrets slip. “I don’t know. A while? What kind of question is that?”

He knows she’s not satisfied with that answer, not his endlessly nosy sister, but he’s delayed her for now. Henry Jr. starts asking when they’re going to be allowed to try the pie. The flow of conversation moves on, but he knows Martha’s going to corner him at some point. She can always tell when John’s hiding something.

Martha corners him as soon as she can, which is not until after dinner. John’s sitting on his bed, sketching and texting various people, when she bangs open the door and barges in.

“Martha, _ knock,”  _ John says with an exasperated groan.

She closes the door behind her and jumps onto his bed. “So, Alexander? Is he Tulip Boy?”

John’s struck dumb for a few seconds. “Martha, what the  _ hell.”  _

She smiles innocently. “So is he?”

John sighs. “You are a terrible sister.”

“I know that. Is he, though?”

“...Maybe.”

“Okay, I know for a fact he’s dating Eliza, unless they broke up… aw, Jackie, did you steal your favorite Schuyler’s boyfriend?”

“I did not. Martha, please stop interrogating me.”

“Okay. Well, then. Wait, was the strawberry picking thing a date? Ooh.” 

“I refuse to dignify that question with a response.”

“And that in itself tells me everything I need to know.” She smiles at him, a genuine smile. “He’d better be good to you. I’m glad you’re happy.” Before John can even respond, she’s out the door, slamming it behind her.

John shrugs and goes back to drawing, but he can’t deny to anyone it makes him feel just a little bit lighter to know that he’s not keeping a secret from his favorite sister anymore. Even though he’d chosen to keep it, and even though he’d known she’d take it well, it still relieved him to be done with it.  _ It’s easier that she guessed,  _ he thinks to himself.

An hour later, his father arrives to a very similar conclusion, but he doesn’t enter John's room to question him, instead waiting for John to come to him. He doesn’t have long to wait; he’s only reading at the kitchen table with a cup of tea for half an hour before John comes downstairs to get his other sketchbook, which he’d left in the living room. Henry looks up when he enters.

“Oh. Hi, Dad.”

“Have you been feeling well today?” Henry cuts straight to the chase, not even bothering with a greeting. John is used to it, expects it, even. That’s how things are with the two of them. Sixteen years makes it easy to cut down on formality.

“I’ve been feeling pretty good. It was a good day.”

“Did you take your meds?”

John sighs. “ _ Yes,  _ I did.”

“You know I’ve got to ask after you apparently failed to take them and ended up in the hospital.”

“That’s fair. But I don’t think you need to worry. I’m gonna be just fine from here on out.” 

His father nods. “Did you have a good time with your friends?”

John feels a sense of deja vu come on. “I did. It was just Alex and Eliza, though.” 

“Ah. Eliza Schuyler?”

“Yup. That’s the one.”

“Isn’t she dating him? Alexander something? Are the three of you close?”

John smiles. “Yep. We’re definitely close.”

He doesn't say anything else. He doesn’t feel the need to. He picks up his sketchbook and heads back upstairs.

There’s a day when all seven of them (Herc and Laf, John and Alex and Eliza, Angelica and Peggy) decide to go out for pizza after school. Their local pizzeria has seen a lot of kids come and go; countless generations of high-school students have discussed the latest gossip over slices in the green vinyl booths. This is the place where John came out to Laf and Herc; it’s the place where the three of them befriended the Schuylers, and the place where John first really talked to Alexander. It’s also the place where Alexander asked out Eliza. The whole building hums with nostalgia and good memories.

It’s also the place where, whenever conversation slows, difficult questions and long-avoided subjects are brought to light.

Alex, John, and Eliza are sitting on one side of the booth; Alex is in the middle, and Eliza and John each have an arm around him. No one’s said anything for about three minutes or so; they're all focused on eating, except for Alexander, who is focused on playing with John’s hair. 

Herc breaks the silence, putting down his pizza and pointing at the three of them. “What are you three, anyway? I’ve been meaning to ask.” 

“Who knows?” Alex says, elbowing John in the ribs. 

“But whatever we are, it’s not his fault,” John adds.

Eliza pokes Alex, then leans over him to poke John. “We literally do know, Alex, we talked about this. I get that you guys like your in-joke, but you could  _ tell them.” _

“Or we could let them wonder for like, another week.”

“ _ Alex,”  _ Peggy, Angelica, Eliza, Laf, and Herc say all at once, a chorus of exasperation.

Eliza lets out an overexaggerated sigh. “Alex and I are still dating, Alex and John are now also dating, John and I are mutually exasperated by Alex’s ridiculousness.”

It takes their friends a few seconds to react, but when they do, they all speak at once.

Lafayette shrugs. “All right.”

Herc nods. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

Angelica stares. “Well, that was a very casually dropped bombshell.”

Peggy says nothing, only jumps up, high-fives John, and sits down again.

John, Alex, and Eliza smile at all of them for a moment. The air’s clearer, and all of them can sense it, but they don’t linger in it for too long.

Conversation flows onwards, as it does; Angelica starts telling a story about a cake and a butterfly, Peggy climbs onto an empty table, and everyone orders second slices. John’s elated the whole time, and not just because Alex is so willing to touch him. It’s nice to be with his friends again; it’s nice to have a day like this, just like the old days but infinitely better. Alex kisses him on the cheek, and Eliza whispers inside jokes in his ear.

He’s got a smile on his face nearly the whole day. He doesn’t cough once the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of the ride! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are my life, so please tell me what you think or leave a kudos!


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